


A Lack Of Creativity

by metaphoricalpluto



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series), Thomas Sanders
Genre: Lack of creativity, lack of motivation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-01
Updated: 2018-06-01
Packaged: 2019-05-17 01:07:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14822339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/metaphoricalpluto/pseuds/metaphoricalpluto
Summary: Roman feels like he lsot his creativity (vent fic)





	A Lack Of Creativity

**Author's Note:**

> just uh, yeah it is what it is i guess. managed to get some thoughts out. its a bit of a vent fic i guess then

Roman sat at his desk, a document open on his laptop. The blank square glaring at him from the bright screen. He’d been at it for hours, hoping, wishing for an idea to come. All he would need it a single spark, a flame of inspiration to get started and do what he had been trying to do all afternoon.

But it seemed like every thought that came weren’t what he was looking for. The motivation dodging around him and evading him. It seemed as if his creativity had gone missing somehow.

Minutes went silently by. The clock’s insistent ticking; a metronome in the back of his head, reminding him of the time which slowly passed. He was surprised he hadn’t gone mad yet listening to the sound.

Another hour went by and yet the word document still remained blank. Wordless. An empty canvas which he could fit a whole world into if he was so inclined.

Sometimes he could go on and write for hours on end, barely even stopping to take a break. All his ideas just flowing out into the computer and onto the page. Whole worlds being created, stories being told, lives made up, and happy endings to be had.

But, there is always an opposite. Days where the ideas just wouldn’t come. Sure he may know what he wanted to write, but the words just weren’t coming. He couldn’t find the right phrase to start, a word didn’t seem to fit correctly, a plot point not seeming to make sense. Days where no matter how hard he tried he just couldn’t make himself be able to write. Days where he may have a sudden spark of an idea, but it leaves just as quickly as it comes. Days where he just didn’t have the motivation to just do anything.

He wasn’t sure if staring at the screen would help anything. He’d tried listening to music, watching a film, trying to take a nap but all of them failed. Except when he did try and sleep he had a sudden burst of creativity, a kindling of an idea, but when he tried to put thoughts to words, and words onto word document, it got lost in translation. Not a word was written that time.

He wondered sometimes if he was even cut out for writing. I mean, what’s the use of calling yourself an author, or a writer when you can barely even write? Barely even manage to write a story within a month. Barely even be able to keep up with a regular updating schedule and not leave people in wait for a story which wasn’t going to come any time soon. It wasn’t fair to them.

Sometimes he just gave up all together, decided writing wasn’t for him. Closed his laptop and went to sleep, blank word document left untouched and unedited. In these times he grew to painting and drawing instead, but alas when he ran dry of ideas for that, he would always gravitate right back to writing. He had nothing else to do anyways.

So he just waited. And waited. And waited for the idea to come. An idea which seemed like it would never come. And it may never come indeed, but he still waited.

He hoped.

And maybe, just maybe, later that night when everyone else was asleep in their rooms, and the mindscape was quiet. Maybe, when he was lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling, far from being able to sleep, ideas buzzing around his mind but no thought to actually write them. Maybe, maybe he would decide to get up. Get up and move himself over to his desk and open his laptop. Maybe he would open a word document, ideas still in his head but no real idea of how to start. And maybe, just maybe, he would start to type. Start to type something, anything, just as long as it got him to write _something_.

And maybe, maybe that something would turn out to be a work of art. Maybe it would turn out to be complete and utter rubbish. But he wouldn’t know. He’d never know unless he tried. Tried to get up and write. Forget about all the hardships of not having an idea. Knuckle down and write for once.

Maybe it would be about a damsel in distress, fleeing from a burning castle. Maybe it would be about a boy who lived in the forest, who had the ability to talk to the plants and speak with fairies. Maybe it would be about someone finding who they were inside. Maybe it would be about soulmates. Maybe it would include dreams he would only wish and hope to make true but know he would never be able to.

Or maybe it would just be a simple story, about a man, a prince, who one day lost is creativity and had to fight to get it back, had to go through the tough to see the best.

Maybe it would just be a story about him, and what he wasn’t able to do, but wished he could.

But he would never know unless he tried.

After all, a story doesn’t write itself you know. Someone has to do it. And it doesn’t matter if it good or bad, it’s the fact you tried to write. Gave time and effort and motivation to complete it. Not caring about what others may think because for once you managed to find the drive to actually get it done. And that is commendable.

And roman went to sleep, after managing to write for a solid hour, not caring about the outcome or how it might read back. He was just proud he completed it. Proud he managed to get through his block and managed to push through and cast aside the creative loss he had experienced.

Because maybe he didn’t have a lack of creativity after all. Maybe he wasn’t so bad of an author. Maybe he could write something even better next time.

And he had hope for the future and what it may hold, no matter what hardships may be thrown at him, he would push through. He was a prince after all. He was determined.

And he had his creativity back.


End file.
